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| Except that lady. I have no clue who that lady is. |
(Thanks Tim!)
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
Fifty Shades Of Frustration
I am on Twitter. I'm not too terribly proud of it.
My motives were good. I wanted to connect with other writers so I could stop boring my friends and family who don't really give a hoot. Twitter seemed a logical place, with people much like myself just a hashtag away. Or so I thought.
By searching out and following random (and not-so-random) writers and publishers and editors, I found myself eyeball-deep in self-promotion and little else of value. Tweets like these, by the thousands, sweep through my feed:
I nearly called it quits, deciding I'd failed in ferreting out real live people on Twitter. The best I could tell, Twitter was one big, soulless PR/Advertising dumping ground for authors and booksellers alike. Not at all the place where tormented artists were huddled together, whining about deadlines, writer's block, and plot holes. Something happened late last week to change that, though. An innocent question led me to small community of writers loosely tied to NaNoWriMo, and, finally, I found hope in the whole Twitter idea that I'd been scoffing at all this time.
Until last night. Yes, I had four whole days of Twitter happiness, and then I discovered something so..... so.... I don't have the words to describe it.
I followed a particular female author, just because. She's no one I'd heard of before, and I didn't remember her at all until something popped up on my newsfeed last night while I was watching the Oscars. This woman was interacting with her followers (something rare amongst authors on Twitter, with the exception of the incomparable Neil Gaiman), and I took notice. Authors/celebrities who take the time to talk to their fans impress me--it shows me they care... about something, at least. Her follower complained that her website had crashed, and the author explained it always did after she released a new book "teaser". They began talking back and forth about how wonderful and quirky the books' main characters are. Now, I had no idea who this lady was or what she writes, but I was intrigued.
I proceeded to download a free sample of one of her books from Amazon without reading the summary. The sample netted me 10 or so pages to read and decide whether I am interested enough to buy the entire book. At $10, I'm already fairly certain I'm NOT interested, but I wanted to see this quirky character everyone's in love with.
It took me about five pages before I realized that this series is completely hanging onto the coattails of Fifty Shades of Grey. (Please don't ask me if I am into Fifty Shades of Grey unless you want to hear me go off on a day-long rant.... I just.... Yeah, don't ask me about it, that's all.)
So, whatever. I get it. Sex sells. A lot. Like major best-seller a lot. That's not really my beef here, although it's really annoying. I'm taking a deep breath and trying--but failing--to climb down off my soapbox.
This morning I checked my Twitter account and came across this author again. At some point, she (or one of her followers) had shared something by an individual on Twitter pretending to be the main male character of her book series. Not that weird--I'm assuming that most fictional characters have a Twitter account maintained by some fanatic. Maybe someday even Liam or Claire will have their own Twitter accounts, too.
What disturbed me is that this fictional character was having fairly graphic Tweetsex (is that a term? If not, it is now) with his followers. I mean.... What??? Y'all have no shame. I don't want to imagine any of you doing any of that with any of that, knowwhatI'msayin'?
I'm not against romance novels. I like it when people fall in love, in real life or in a book's life. I've been known to drown myself in chocolate chip cookies and a trashy novel when I can't be bothered with thinking. Trashy novels don't require thinking. But.... some of these books are topping the charts! And I don't want to believe it for a single second.
It's discouraging to know that this is what I am up against. That most of the readers don't care what the plot is or how utterly unbelievable a character is as long as they are drrrrty birdies. That I will likely never see the same level of success because my main character doesn't let him x her y with a z. Depressing, really.
I'm not yet swearing off Twitter because luckily I did find a few quality individuals along the way, and a couple of them have helped quite a deal with my novel. However, I guess I will have to learn to be more discerning of the complete strangers I pay attention to. I suppose that's not a bad thing to apply to most areas of my life.
And even though it's disheartening to see, I'm not going to let the Fifty Shades of the literary world get me down. A captivating story can be created without all of that, I'm sure of it.
#rantover #amiright?
My motives were good. I wanted to connect with other writers so I could stop boring my friends and family who don't really give a hoot. Twitter seemed a logical place, with people much like myself just a hashtag away. Or so I thought.
By searching out and following random (and not-so-random) writers and publishers and editors, I found myself eyeball-deep in self-promotion and little else of value. Tweets like these, by the thousands, sweep through my feed:
BUY MY BOOK FOR .99, TODAY ONLY #bythewayitsucks
Mona doesn't need dignity where she's going... VAGUE BOOK TITLE #scrubyourbrainwithlysollater
#Write your #novel in five hours but.payme20bucksfirst.com !!!!
I nearly called it quits, deciding I'd failed in ferreting out real live people on Twitter. The best I could tell, Twitter was one big, soulless PR/Advertising dumping ground for authors and booksellers alike. Not at all the place where tormented artists were huddled together, whining about deadlines, writer's block, and plot holes. Something happened late last week to change that, though. An innocent question led me to small community of writers loosely tied to NaNoWriMo, and, finally, I found hope in the whole Twitter idea that I'd been scoffing at all this time.
Until last night. Yes, I had four whole days of Twitter happiness, and then I discovered something so..... so.... I don't have the words to describe it.
I followed a particular female author, just because. She's no one I'd heard of before, and I didn't remember her at all until something popped up on my newsfeed last night while I was watching the Oscars. This woman was interacting with her followers (something rare amongst authors on Twitter, with the exception of the incomparable Neil Gaiman), and I took notice. Authors/celebrities who take the time to talk to their fans impress me--it shows me they care... about something, at least. Her follower complained that her website had crashed, and the author explained it always did after she released a new book "teaser". They began talking back and forth about how wonderful and quirky the books' main characters are. Now, I had no idea who this lady was or what she writes, but I was intrigued.
I proceeded to download a free sample of one of her books from Amazon without reading the summary. The sample netted me 10 or so pages to read and decide whether I am interested enough to buy the entire book. At $10, I'm already fairly certain I'm NOT interested, but I wanted to see this quirky character everyone's in love with.
It took me about five pages before I realized that this series is completely hanging onto the coattails of Fifty Shades of Grey. (Please don't ask me if I am into Fifty Shades of Grey unless you want to hear me go off on a day-long rant.... I just.... Yeah, don't ask me about it, that's all.)
So, whatever. I get it. Sex sells. A lot. Like major best-seller a lot. That's not really my beef here, although it's really annoying. I'm taking a deep breath and trying--but failing--to climb down off my soapbox.
This morning I checked my Twitter account and came across this author again. At some point, she (or one of her followers) had shared something by an individual on Twitter pretending to be the main male character of her book series. Not that weird--I'm assuming that most fictional characters have a Twitter account maintained by some fanatic. Maybe someday even Liam or Claire will have their own Twitter accounts, too.
What disturbed me is that this fictional character was having fairly graphic Tweetsex (is that a term? If not, it is now) with his followers. I mean.... What??? Y'all have no shame. I don't want to imagine any of you doing any of that with any of that, knowwhatI'msayin'?
I'm not against romance novels. I like it when people fall in love, in real life or in a book's life. I've been known to drown myself in chocolate chip cookies and a trashy novel when I can't be bothered with thinking. Trashy novels don't require thinking. But.... some of these books are topping the charts! And I don't want to believe it for a single second.
It's discouraging to know that this is what I am up against. That most of the readers don't care what the plot is or how utterly unbelievable a character is as long as they are drrrrty birdies. That I will likely never see the same level of success because my main character doesn't let him x her y with a z. Depressing, really.
I'm not yet swearing off Twitter because luckily I did find a few quality individuals along the way, and a couple of them have helped quite a deal with my novel. However, I guess I will have to learn to be more discerning of the complete strangers I pay attention to. I suppose that's not a bad thing to apply to most areas of my life.
And even though it's disheartening to see, I'm not going to let the Fifty Shades of the literary world get me down. A captivating story can be created without all of that, I'm sure of it.
#rantover #amiright?
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
For Your Consideration...
Last week I attended my sons' Valentines parties with toddler in tow, even though school parties make me want to drink. If my kids didn't keep track of these things on some invisible ledger and then judge me with tears filling their huge brown eyes, I'd be happy forgoing them altogether. Ohboy #2 is especially sensitive to this, and shamed me for a solid week when I accidentally (really! I swear!) missed his Halloween party. Ohboy #3 usually gives me grief for overlooking the more obscure school celebrations like "Grandparents/Special Person Day". When they say "Special Person", apparently that means ME. It's appropriate, I know.
On Valentine's Day, I dragged myself from one classroom to the other, at the opposite end of the school. Ohboy #4 happily stomped along with me, and I found myself thankful that he was too big to carry. I dreaded class parties when he was unsure on his feet and spent most of his time in my arms. He's never been a small child--he's built more like a linebacker than his refined, aerodynamic siblings. In the early days I always left functions with my whole body trembling from muscle fatigue and dripping with sweat. Now that he can walk and throw a mean right hook, it is not quite so bad.
Except... When my baby is safe in my arms, he can't receive the full force of some kid's hacking cough right in his chubby little face.
Three days later--Sunday morning--he is running a fever and barking like a Sea World performer. Ohboy #3 follows his lead, spiking a fever soon after. The next morning Ohboy #2 follows suit. Luckily, Monday was President's Day, a day already scheduled off from school. I'm thankful for that built-in recovery time.
Only now it is Wednesday and everyone is still feverish, coughing, and miserable. And why? So someone could let their sick child attend a party at school? So they didn't have to take a day off from work? But where does that leave my family?
I have health insurance, but it is crappy. We pay around $80 per office visit because our deductible is, like, a trillion dollars. To take all three of my younger children in to be cared for, should I need to, I am looking at $240. Should they need prescriptions of any kind, such as Tamiflu, my out-of-pocket costs would reach nearly $400+. (And, if we're being technical, my doctor prescribed Tamiflu and when my husband went to pick it up, our insurance was being useless and he would have been required to pay $200 for the prescription for just one child... He opted not to buy said medicine because we're poor).
Also--what if I was a mother working outside of the home? I mean, I am, but only when this last birth happens, and then I'm off call for a little while. But what if I had a 9-5 that I had to take time off to care for my sick kids? That's a loss of wages for me, as well. So on top of the expenses for the doctor and the drugs, now I'm not clocking in hours at the job. And for what? But because I am a mostly-stay-at-home mother, it must not matter because, heck, I'm home anyway. Clearly it is not an imposition to me at all to have the plague hit us head-on and then pass through six individuals..... because I stay at home.
And this doesn't even really factor in what my children miss at school--especially Ohboy #2, who struggles more than his younger brother. I know I'm whining a teensy bit, but, for the love! This is the fourth round of major illness this winter! I'm not sure how much more I can take!
All I'm asking is for a little consideration, here. You and your family are important, but so is mine. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
On Valentine's Day, I dragged myself from one classroom to the other, at the opposite end of the school. Ohboy #4 happily stomped along with me, and I found myself thankful that he was too big to carry. I dreaded class parties when he was unsure on his feet and spent most of his time in my arms. He's never been a small child--he's built more like a linebacker than his refined, aerodynamic siblings. In the early days I always left functions with my whole body trembling from muscle fatigue and dripping with sweat. Now that he can walk and throw a mean right hook, it is not quite so bad.
Except... When my baby is safe in my arms, he can't receive the full force of some kid's hacking cough right in his chubby little face.
Three days later--Sunday morning--he is running a fever and barking like a Sea World performer. Ohboy #3 follows his lead, spiking a fever soon after. The next morning Ohboy #2 follows suit. Luckily, Monday was President's Day, a day already scheduled off from school. I'm thankful for that built-in recovery time.
Only now it is Wednesday and everyone is still feverish, coughing, and miserable. And why? So someone could let their sick child attend a party at school? So they didn't have to take a day off from work? But where does that leave my family?
I have health insurance, but it is crappy. We pay around $80 per office visit because our deductible is, like, a trillion dollars. To take all three of my younger children in to be cared for, should I need to, I am looking at $240. Should they need prescriptions of any kind, such as Tamiflu, my out-of-pocket costs would reach nearly $400+. (And, if we're being technical, my doctor prescribed Tamiflu and when my husband went to pick it up, our insurance was being useless and he would have been required to pay $200 for the prescription for just one child... He opted not to buy said medicine because we're poor).
Also--what if I was a mother working outside of the home? I mean, I am, but only when this last birth happens, and then I'm off call for a little while. But what if I had a 9-5 that I had to take time off to care for my sick kids? That's a loss of wages for me, as well. So on top of the expenses for the doctor and the drugs, now I'm not clocking in hours at the job. And for what? But because I am a mostly-stay-at-home mother, it must not matter because, heck, I'm home anyway. Clearly it is not an imposition to me at all to have the plague hit us head-on and then pass through six individuals..... because I stay at home.
And this doesn't even really factor in what my children miss at school--especially Ohboy #2, who struggles more than his younger brother. I know I'm whining a teensy bit, but, for the love! This is the fourth round of major illness this winter! I'm not sure how much more I can take!
All I'm asking is for a little consideration, here. You and your family are important, but so is mine. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Shiny Wheels
That winter, I became a snowbird. More than anything, I didn't want to be a snowbird. None of my friends were snowbirds, and I envied them. Their evenings were full of high-school basketball games, parties, and pointless flirting. Life wintering in Florida meant Bingo nights in the clubhouse surrounded by shrinking, silver people, watching school on the VCR, and making long-distance friends on an infant Internet because social media wasn't a thing yet. Paradise surrounded me, and I couldn't appreciate it. I felt alone, because I was alone. My parents didn't count as real people. Psssh! Of course they didn't.
The Internet led me to Matt, a boy who lived in Ft. Myers, forty-five minutes away. Sight unseen, we struck up an odd friendship, and began talking on the telephone for hours at a time. After a couple weeks of daily phone calls, we decided to take our relationship to the next level. Yes, it was finally time to meet in person.
My mother, whose sense of paranoia surpassed "To Catch a Predator"'s Chris Hansen, felt certain that this boy was a 40-year-old serial rapist targeting his next victim. Eventually, I exhausted her in the way that only a whiny teenage girl can, and she reluctantly allowed this meeting to happen. Our two rules were that we could only meet somewhere public and that we would remain within sight of a parent at all times. There would be no stalking or abduction on Mama's watch, nosir!
Matt and I--parents chaperoning, of course--planned to drive to town for a noontime lunch at Cheeburger on Saturday, giving me enough time to take a morning riding lesson and get cleaned up. At 2 p.m., he called from a pay phone outside the Burger King at our interstate exit. The boy was two hours late, an unpardonable offense according to my growling stomach. Strike 1.
"Sorry," he shrugged. "I was washing my wheels."
I've never considered myself to be God's gift to the male species, ever. However, I know that I am more valuable than shiny wheels. Most girls are.
We made our way to Cheeburger, where Matt scanned the menu for a while before finally deciding on the 1/2-pound cheeseburger, fries, and a salad.
"But put the dressing on the side," he instructed the waitress. "I'm on a diet."
My friend Matt was not a small guy, by any definition of the word. I called shenanigans on his attempt to appear health-conscious.
When the bill came at the end of our meal, he silently allowed my step-dad to pay for his share. I wondered if he remembered bragging to me about the fifty bucks his mom had given him for the day's gas and food. Strike 2.
Our next stop was King Richard's, a medieval-themed arcade and miniature golf center. We'd barely stepped inside the doors when my mother asked if I wanted to go with her to the restroom.
Yes, boys. Sometimes when we travel in packs to the bathroom, it's because we are talking about you. We really aren't afraid of something happening to us like a monster waiting to gobble us up if we go in there alone.
"Do you want us to leave you alone with Matt while we're here?" She asked as the bathroom door swung closed behind us.
I shook my head so violently I nearly gave myself whiplash. Truth be told, I hoped he would be gone by the time we walked back out to the lobby. If only we weren't his ride back to his truck.
"Okay." She smiled.
Only, that's not how it worked.
Somehow I ended up by myself with Matt, playing a round of miniature golf while my parents disappeared. I imagine they were hiding around the corner, laughing at how visibly uncomfortable I was in Matt's presence. They probably figured making me squirm would discourage me from trying to meet any more of my cyber friends.
As we slowly made our way around the range, Matt turned to me and whined, "They're being so unfair to me by not letting us be alone." After my skin stopped crawling, I silently thanked my paranoid mother for all of her rules. Strike 3, Matt, just because I could.... and because it was about time for you to strike out and head back to the dugout.
Soon after, we dropped Matt off at Burger King, where his shiny truck waited to carry him home. My parents made an excuse about other plans they'd made--a lie we made come true because they're both honest people.
I let out a sigh of relief as we drove away from where he stood, open-mouthed, next to his impeccable vehicle.
The Internet led me to Matt, a boy who lived in Ft. Myers, forty-five minutes away. Sight unseen, we struck up an odd friendship, and began talking on the telephone for hours at a time. After a couple weeks of daily phone calls, we decided to take our relationship to the next level. Yes, it was finally time to meet in person.
My mother, whose sense of paranoia surpassed "To Catch a Predator"'s Chris Hansen, felt certain that this boy was a 40-year-old serial rapist targeting his next victim. Eventually, I exhausted her in the way that only a whiny teenage girl can, and she reluctantly allowed this meeting to happen. Our two rules were that we could only meet somewhere public and that we would remain within sight of a parent at all times. There would be no stalking or abduction on Mama's watch, nosir!
Matt and I--parents chaperoning, of course--planned to drive to town for a noontime lunch at Cheeburger on Saturday, giving me enough time to take a morning riding lesson and get cleaned up. At 2 p.m., he called from a pay phone outside the Burger King at our interstate exit. The boy was two hours late, an unpardonable offense according to my growling stomach. Strike 1.
"Sorry," he shrugged. "I was washing my wheels."
I've never considered myself to be God's gift to the male species, ever. However, I know that I am more valuable than shiny wheels. Most girls are.
We made our way to Cheeburger, where Matt scanned the menu for a while before finally deciding on the 1/2-pound cheeseburger, fries, and a salad.
"But put the dressing on the side," he instructed the waitress. "I'm on a diet."
My friend Matt was not a small guy, by any definition of the word. I called shenanigans on his attempt to appear health-conscious.
When the bill came at the end of our meal, he silently allowed my step-dad to pay for his share. I wondered if he remembered bragging to me about the fifty bucks his mom had given him for the day's gas and food. Strike 2.
Our next stop was King Richard's, a medieval-themed arcade and miniature golf center. We'd barely stepped inside the doors when my mother asked if I wanted to go with her to the restroom.
Yes, boys. Sometimes when we travel in packs to the bathroom, it's because we are talking about you. We really aren't afraid of something happening to us like a monster waiting to gobble us up if we go in there alone.
"Do you want us to leave you alone with Matt while we're here?" She asked as the bathroom door swung closed behind us.
I shook my head so violently I nearly gave myself whiplash. Truth be told, I hoped he would be gone by the time we walked back out to the lobby. If only we weren't his ride back to his truck.
"Okay." She smiled.
Only, that's not how it worked.
Somehow I ended up by myself with Matt, playing a round of miniature golf while my parents disappeared. I imagine they were hiding around the corner, laughing at how visibly uncomfortable I was in Matt's presence. They probably figured making me squirm would discourage me from trying to meet any more of my cyber friends.
As we slowly made our way around the range, Matt turned to me and whined, "They're being so unfair to me by not letting us be alone." After my skin stopped crawling, I silently thanked my paranoid mother for all of her rules. Strike 3, Matt, just because I could.... and because it was about time for you to strike out and head back to the dugout.
Soon after, we dropped Matt off at Burger King, where his shiny truck waited to carry him home. My parents made an excuse about other plans they'd made--a lie we made come true because they're both honest people.
I let out a sigh of relief as we drove away from where he stood, open-mouthed, next to his impeccable vehicle.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Labels
Labels.
We are all our own collage of labels, definitions of the person we are, collected piece-by-piece over time as we travel our path.
Business owner. Employee. Artist. Stay-at-home parent. Between jobs. Barely hanging on.
Mom. Dad. Sister. Brother. Aunt. Uncle. Grandparent. Caretaker. Zookeeper.
Parent of an special child. Survivor. The one left behind.
In love with a man. In love with a woman. Lonely. Confused. Misunderstood.
Hero. Drama king or queen. Class clown. Bookworm.
Believer. Not. Unsure what might be out there. Searching.
What are your labels? Do you wear them proudly, or do some of your labels make you feel ashamed? Do you shout who you are to anyone who will listen, 24/7? Or do you let people discover on their own? Can you look upon the labels of others without scrunching up your nose?
We are all our own collage of labels, definitions of the person we are, collected piece-by-piece over time as we travel our path.
Business owner. Employee. Artist. Stay-at-home parent. Between jobs. Barely hanging on.
Mom. Dad. Sister. Brother. Aunt. Uncle. Grandparent. Caretaker. Zookeeper.
Parent of an special child. Survivor. The one left behind.
In love with a man. In love with a woman. Lonely. Confused. Misunderstood.
Hero. Drama king or queen. Class clown. Bookworm.
Believer. Not. Unsure what might be out there. Searching.
What are your labels? Do you wear them proudly, or do some of your labels make you feel ashamed? Do you shout who you are to anyone who will listen, 24/7? Or do you let people discover on their own? Can you look upon the labels of others without scrunching up your nose?
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Meh.
I decided to edit today, with three kids in the house, one of whom I was attempting to potty-train. Mr. Ohboy spent most of the day working. In other words, I was torturing myself.
My goal was to finish the opening scene of book 1, which I did. I felt good about the changes I made, but when I re-read it just now. Meh.
Maybe it will feel better tomorrow.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Where You Least Expect It
I want to update my status on Facebook to complain about my new dishwasher and the fact that it is doing the same thing that caused my old dishwasher to meet its end. I want to complain because my kids piled in my bed while I was on the phone and now there is no room for me.
I can't.
People I love are struggling at this very moment with things much larger than my annoyances. Their hearts are breaking. Their hearts are stopping. Who cares about the sand on my dishes? Really? I'm not sure I even care that much, except every dish I own is dirty and I haven't perfected my "making a cup out of a piece of paper" trick yet. Still, I have dishes to complain about, and electricity and water, even though the combination doesn't seem to be working as flawlessly as I think it should. Poor me.
This is such a broken world, home to unspeakable pain and struggle. And yet, there is such beauty hidden in the oddest of places. It's what I wish for the ones I love who are hurting, that beauty will find them where they least expect it. For me, tonight, that will be singing along quietly to a mellow song as I hand-wash dishes for my family's breakfast tomorrow.
Breakfast with my wild, loud, quirky family. I figure things don't get much more beautiful than that.
I can't.
People I love are struggling at this very moment with things much larger than my annoyances. Their hearts are breaking. Their hearts are stopping. Who cares about the sand on my dishes? Really? I'm not sure I even care that much, except every dish I own is dirty and I haven't perfected my "making a cup out of a piece of paper" trick yet. Still, I have dishes to complain about, and electricity and water, even though the combination doesn't seem to be working as flawlessly as I think it should. Poor me.
This is such a broken world, home to unspeakable pain and struggle. And yet, there is such beauty hidden in the oddest of places. It's what I wish for the ones I love who are hurting, that beauty will find them where they least expect it. For me, tonight, that will be singing along quietly to a mellow song as I hand-wash dishes for my family's breakfast tomorrow.
Breakfast with my wild, loud, quirky family. I figure things don't get much more beautiful than that.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Ghosts
I was on a mission: Grab a soda and make it to choir practice on time. A few days ago our director laid down the law about being late to rehearsals. This time, surprisingly, it wasn't directed at me. Punctuality has not always been my strongest trait, but it's something I've been working on because clients don't tend to hire you when you consistently show up late to appointments. Imagine that.
As I made my way through the flow of my fellow grocery store patrons picking up last-minute supplies for the big game, an odd feeling washed over me. Maybe my subconscious caught the profile of someone familiar in the crowd, just enough to spark the thought, "What if he's here?"
He.
The boy who rewrote my life those years ago.
The boy who never saw it through.
The boy who doesn't know that he shares that same aloof smile.
It makes me wonder if we've ever been in the same place at the same time, breathing the same air. For my sanity, I pretend it's impossible. The alternative is too much to consider.
What would I do, should he walk up to me one day, asking if I remembered him? Catching up on lost time? I imagine it would all shatter around my feet, that it's the best thing that never happened to me--this accidental encounter. Mostly, I believe he is relieved to be free of me and the many shades of broken I was back then.
The smallest part of me insists that he must wonder. That's the same shred of me that won't let me forget that I am forever bonded to someone who is practically a specter. Once too alive in my world, he now drifts beyond my view. I still feel his presence when the goosebumps raise on the back of my neck. I still pray that today is not the day he chooses to breach the gap and make contact.
I do not know how to communicate with ghosts, and today was not the day I wished to learn. All I wanted was a soda.
As I made my way through the flow of my fellow grocery store patrons picking up last-minute supplies for the big game, an odd feeling washed over me. Maybe my subconscious caught the profile of someone familiar in the crowd, just enough to spark the thought, "What if he's here?"
He.
The boy who rewrote my life those years ago.
The boy who never saw it through.
The boy who doesn't know that he shares that same aloof smile.
It makes me wonder if we've ever been in the same place at the same time, breathing the same air. For my sanity, I pretend it's impossible. The alternative is too much to consider.
What would I do, should he walk up to me one day, asking if I remembered him? Catching up on lost time? I imagine it would all shatter around my feet, that it's the best thing that never happened to me--this accidental encounter. Mostly, I believe he is relieved to be free of me and the many shades of broken I was back then.
The smallest part of me insists that he must wonder. That's the same shred of me that won't let me forget that I am forever bonded to someone who is practically a specter. Once too alive in my world, he now drifts beyond my view. I still feel his presence when the goosebumps raise on the back of my neck. I still pray that today is not the day he chooses to breach the gap and make contact.
I do not know how to communicate with ghosts, and today was not the day I wished to learn. All I wanted was a soda.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Advice To My Younger Self
Write the letter, if you must. All 30 pages of it. Pour the words from your heart like water from a pitcher. Get it all out--every last drop--until you've said all you need to say. Then destroy it. I don't care how the letter meets its end. Fire. Paper shredder. Teething puppy. Computer trash can. Whatever.
Don't you dare send that letter. If you have a novella of angst and emotion pent up inside, sharing it all with that person isn't likely to change a thing. It will, however, come back to haunt you like the gamble you took when scarfing down that grey-looking burrito from the gas station that one time.
Keep a journal, a diary, a blog instead, but be prepared to cringe when you look back. You're constantly growing and changing as a person, gathering life experience and wisdom by the arm-loads. What you fiercely believe now will probably be only a speck of what you hold to be true 10 or 20 years from now.... Don't be a bit surprised if you don't even recognize the person you used to be a decade or two down the road.
The world is so different now then it was when I was younger and figuring everything out. I thank God that I was not born to this generation, where every racing, uncensored thought can be shared instantly. I didn't need the extra help, finding my way in the most awkward way possible. My younger family members are traveling these well-worn paths. They are falling fast and hard in love and lashing out for offenses they won't remember when the sun rises tomorrow. They are baring their souls on page and screen, words that can't be returned or wiped clean.
It's tough, this growing up. It's hard to look back and know where you would have chosen differently. It's even worse to have a liftetime witness.
Burn the letter. You are more incredible--today, yesterday, 10 years ago--than you will ever know. You don't need the letter to convince him, promise.
Don't you dare send that letter. If you have a novella of angst and emotion pent up inside, sharing it all with that person isn't likely to change a thing. It will, however, come back to haunt you like the gamble you took when scarfing down that grey-looking burrito from the gas station that one time.
Keep a journal, a diary, a blog instead, but be prepared to cringe when you look back. You're constantly growing and changing as a person, gathering life experience and wisdom by the arm-loads. What you fiercely believe now will probably be only a speck of what you hold to be true 10 or 20 years from now.... Don't be a bit surprised if you don't even recognize the person you used to be a decade or two down the road.
The world is so different now then it was when I was younger and figuring everything out. I thank God that I was not born to this generation, where every racing, uncensored thought can be shared instantly. I didn't need the extra help, finding my way in the most awkward way possible. My younger family members are traveling these well-worn paths. They are falling fast and hard in love and lashing out for offenses they won't remember when the sun rises tomorrow. They are baring their souls on page and screen, words that can't be returned or wiped clean.
It's tough, this growing up. It's hard to look back and know where you would have chosen differently. It's even worse to have a liftetime witness.
Burn the letter. You are more incredible--today, yesterday, 10 years ago--than you will ever know. You don't need the letter to convince him, promise.
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